Reaction Shots
by thestylus01
Summary: The crew reacts to home. And Janeway.
1. Hell

Reaction Shots  
by the stylus

The crew reacts to home. And Janeway.

* * *

Hell (Owen)

* * *

She looks almost the same in my doorway as she did in her Academy togs all those years ago. But she doesn't look at me with the same expression. Maybe I'm slipping: even the vice-admirals used to cower a bit. Or she just doesn't care.

I wave her to a chair, smiling gently. We have had our awkward reunion already. It was followed by a barrage of hearings, conferences, charges, defenses, and decisions. Honestly, I was a little bit surprised that she accepted my invitation to lunch; but she never seemed to take any of the panel's questions personally.

She is wearing a scent that is dry and spicy. Her eyes are still that color of a storm over the ocean. I wonder if she ever missed any of us. I used to think of her some days; I told myself it was because she was watching over my son.

We make small talk as I replicate two trays and carry them to my desk-- talk about the distant past, though there are some subjects we have always avoided. To broach the gulf of time, I tell her again how proud I am of her for getting her ship home. "You were like the daughter I never had," I say. I have two daughters: one an advocate in the civilian courts, one a chef.

"Don't, Owen." She raises her hand to ward off the implications and the palm has faint scars. No one keeps scars these days. "I don't need another parent."

"No." I try laughing a bit to take the sting out of her quiet reproof. "I should think not. You've proven you can take care of yourself."

"Yes." She smiles faintly at this. "I've always tried to be self-sufficient."

For awhile we eat in silence. I study her as she intently studies her food. She is no longer young: this surprises me more than it should. I had not seen her for several years before Voyager shipped out, almost seven years ago now. Her hair is much shorter, tucked behind her ears; there are lines around her eyes, her mouth, across her forehead; her jaw is tighter than I remember it. There was a time when I had feelings toward her that were less than honest, a time when she (wide-eyed, innocent) tugged at a soft part of me. No longer. Instead my insides twist a bit in the space between desire and fear. Her motions are still graceful, but the gentleness has been honed out of them. There is nothing wasted in her face or her actions.

Discomfited, I ask, "What would you like to do now?"

She looks levelly at me, setting her fork down. "I'd like to get back out into space soon. I'm hoping when assignments come down they'll have me out of dry-dock as quickly as possible."

I smile. "Even after all that _bending_ of the PD?"

She shrugs, neither an admission nor a denial. "They didn't make as much of it in the review as I would have expected. I assume that means they're willing to concede the points."

"You made us proud. Not one captain in a hundred could have gotten that ship home. Don't you think you deserve some time off?"

"Probably." She cocks her head a bit, a gesture I remember from her cadet days. "But what would I do? My mother is dead, and I have no family on Earth to speak of. Phoebe is traveling with her show-- impossible to pin down most days." Not a trace of self-pity. "And besides, all my civ clothes are at least ten years out of date, and I was only gone seven years." Her smile does not reassure me.

"I just hope they don't recommend a desk posting for the next rotation. One thing I didn't miss in the Delta Quadrant was the paperwork. No offense," she adds, surveying the massive desk which dominates my office and serves only as a base structure for precarious padd mounds. I almost mistake her expression for amusement.

"None taken. You never were the type to sit back quietly and let others have all the adventures."

"No." Almost pensive. "I don't suppose I was."

We go back to eating. The silence seems to hold more safety. Or less danger. I find myself comparing this to my reunion with Tom, which was easier after I promised my wife I would make an extra effort at it... this time.

I try one last time to find the woman across the table from me. "Oh, Kathryn, when I told Admiral McKinney I was having lunch with you, he sent this by." I hold the padd out to her. "It's your counseling schedule."

She takes it without touching my hand and lays it by her tray, not even glancing at it. It's standard procedure after a deep space mission of any length. We both know how to tell them what they want to hear, even the Betazoids.

Rising, she carries her tray to the replicator to recycle it, then stands, facing me and the large windowed wall of my office which looks out over the Academy grounds. "Thank you for lunch, Owen. I have to make a meeting with the design team to tell them why it's not a good idea to try incorporating slip-stream elements into warp engines. It was... nice to see you again. Take care of yourself, old man." There is a hint of the girl she was in that.

"Kathryn." I stop her in the door, one hand on the frame as she half turns to look at me. "Tell me the truth. What was it like out there?"

Her hesitation is so slight it is almost nonexistent. "It was hell. And sometimes I loved it."

And she is gone.

* * *

End 1/6 


	2. Want

* * *

Want (Seven)

* * *

Starfleet has said they want me. 

Not, I think, in the way she wanted me.

Last night she invited me for dinner. I accepted. Her apartment was in the Officers' Quarters, and when I arrived she was still in her uniform. I had been to Neelix's once in our three weeks home for a small gathering of the senior staff; and I had been to visit Naomi in her new home with her new father. Her apartment did not remind me of those places at all. It was all grey and blue, like shipboard quarters. In one corner of the living area were two moderate-sized boxes, which I assumed to be from Voyager. One was designated "Work"; one was designated "Personal." Everything else appeared Starfleet-issue.

She asked me what I wanted for dinner, as if we were in the habit of having these encounters. When I asked for wine, she seemed a bit surprised. I told her I had acquired an affinity for the taste. She suggested something that was not an intoxicant. In the end, I let her choose: a fruit tea over ice.

She asked about my family, knowing I had met them after Starfleet decided I "no longer posed a significant threat to the welfare of the citizens of the Federation." I wanted to thank her for speaking on my behalf, but I sensed, as I sometimes am able to now, that such an expression would be unwelcome. I told her that I found my grandparents kind, but that I did not feel any attachment to them and that, in truth, they still seemed a bit frightened by the idea of having a Borg for a granddaughter. I recounted my plans to leave for the Vulcan Science Academy at the end of the coming week. She nodded.

"As long as you're sure this is what you want, Seven."

She is the only person who has ever asked me what I want. I tried to speak and found myself prevented by the weight of the language. "I want..."

Moving slowly she called down the lights and rose from her chair. She came to stand by me, reached out her hand to gather me to my feet. We kissed and it was not soft like the holodeck programs the Doctor had finally given me. Her hands found the zipper and catch on my bodysuit without hesitation. Had she known how to do this for some time?

Then I was naked, and silent. My hands found their way under the hem of her sweater, but she stepped back as I tugged upward. She stripped herself unhurriedly, calmly. She was beautiful. When she was finished, she led me to the Starfleet bed in the next room and pushed me down, not gently.

She stretched herself over me and as I brought my hands to her back, I could feel the sharp juts of the blades of her shoulders and the knots of her spine. She bit my breast and I cried out because it hurt. Then I cried out because the hurt bled over into something else, something not quite like pain. Her fingers slid over my belly and down; I tensed, waiting. Wanting. It was nothing like my holodeck encounters with young men who said "please" and "dear" in breathy tones. I came quickly, hard, with her fingers inside me and the marks from her teeth reddening angrily over my upper body.

When I rolled over her, pinning her arms above her head, she arched into my body. I nipped her collarbone and then trailed my left hand down her right arm. I pulled away slightly as I moved lower. I had learned the hard way how easy it is to hurt with the implants left there. But she grabbed my hand and brought it back to her body with such ferocity that I didn't dare pull away again. Perhaps it had something to do with the reason she hadn't wanted to have wine: nothing to take the edge off the sensation. I was rougher than I had been with the holograms but she kept her eyes on mine the whole time, even when she came, arching up from the bed but not screaming. I think I must have fallen asleep while she was in the bathroom taking a shower. When I woke, it was morning and she was gone. Her scent was still on my skin.

I thought about leaving a note but wasn't sure what I would say. I will be on Vulcan in ten days. Perhaps that is far enough away not to want.

* * *

End 2/6 


	3. Need

* * *

Need (B'Elanna)

* * *

There was a time when I would have said that I knew her. I would have been wrong; but, I would not have been lying. Now it eats at me that I once would have claimed to know Kathryn Janeway. Not because I hate her. Maybe because she let me lie to myself for so long.

Tom is good comfort on this one. He knows what it's like to be passionately ambivalent toward someone. At least I'm not related to Janeway. I've never had to come home to her at the end of the day, although I'll admit that her approval has meant a lot more to me over these past years than it should have. I promised myself after the Academy that I'd never let other people run me with simple compliments. I guess that was another lie I led myself into believing.

But we're back in the AQ, after all. I knew I was home when some scrawny targ-faced representative from a holo-corp left a message for me, saying that they were "very interested in the exciting prospects that the Voyager story presents for fun, entertaining and," leaning close to the screen and lowering his voice, "lucrative holo-creations." I was tempted to call him back and tell him that, sure, I'd be happy to help. But if we were going to truly recreate Voyager and her fine, upstanding crew (also his words) we'd need to write in an algorithm that caused the holodeck to malfunction at random intervals, at least every four hours. Hey, people like a good disaster scenario, right?

And after that in the queue there was a message from her: reserved, polite, exactly the sort of communiqué you'd expect from an acquaintance you hadn't seen in a few years but hadn't quite hated enough to lose touch with. Congratulations on my 'Fleet status and new post; a promise to drop by my office while she was still stationed at Headquarters; more congratulations about making it with Tom long enough to get an apartment that's ours. It was all very... nice. She was so polite it set my teeth on edge just listening to that well-modulated tone. I wonder if she got that from those damn holonovels she had at the beginning of our odyssey. Nothing Indiana farm girl about it, but I was willing to bet it made the Admirals swoon.

I was set to hate her for that message. In fact, I was poised to hurl something hard and pointed at the screen when she stopped, leaned in close, and that half-smile ghosted across her face. "I'm proud of you, B'Elanna. You're a wonderful engineer, the best Chief I've ever had. You deserve at least everything Starfleet is giving you. Just try," she leaned back a bit, the hard part over, "when the brass has a rough day and passes it on, to remember that Tom's limbs function optimally in their current arrangement."

I wanted to hate her. And instead I was trying not to cry. I hate crying.

Out there, we needed her. And she was a good captain, a fine officer if you hold the regs at arm's length and squint. She got us home, whatever it took. And then she turned off, at least to us: we didn't need her anymore. I found I could hate her for that, for the duranium shell she could lower at will. For her control. I still don't know if she's empty inside or just tough. I don't know if she needs anything. Or anyone.

I just have that message saved on my terminal. The one where she tells me she's proud of me.

* * *

End 3/6 


	4. Free

* * *

Free (Chakotay)

* * *

I am a free man. Perhaps for the first time in my life. Acquitted by Starfleet, a sort of Maquis hero just for making it out alive. The only allegiances I have now are personal.

It feels good, as though I'm really breathing deeply for the first time. It started in the Delta Quadrant, sometime after those tenuous first months when we no longer looked over our shoulders for mutiny at every turn. Coming back interrupted that sense of peace, but I have found-- I am finding-- it again. Here. In the Alpha Quadrant.

I saw Kathryn today, went and sought her out in the temporary office space Starfleet has assigned her before they figure out whether to make her take leave or throw her back out into space. I figured I owed it to her to tell her of my resignation in person. Not that she would have cared either way. She just took in the news with that blank command face she has perfected and told me she hopes I'll be happy. Fuck it. What does she care about my happiness? Five years ago, I thought she could _be_ my happiness, but I misjudged her ability to get emotionally invested in... anything. I tried to make her into something she wasn't: someone who could laugh, could love me, could begin to make a life with me. I let myself picture our children. Such a silly thing, really, fantasies of the sort I had about girls on Dorvan, or at the Academy. But it still had the power to hurt; and I still mourned them when I finally let them go.

After all, I wasn't about to spend my whole life pining for something I couldn't have. I'm not a monk; and, unlike some people, I don't want to be one. Ok, so Riley wasn't really my idea. But Kellin and I... if the journals I left were any indication, we really had something. And now I have Jenna. We've been together almost a year now, since that incident with the Af'tri, and it's good. Really good. We want the same things: a home, a family, some place to just sit back and be for awhile. I think we're going to take some of my old friends up on their proposal to help start up an ag colony light years away from Earth and all things 'Fleet. It'll be nice not to have to wear a uniform every damn day.

Kathryn, I'm sure, will stay in. She's too 'Fleet to leave now, too entrenched in this pattern of her life. There was a time when I would have tried to make her see the possibilities beyond it, a time when I would have told her that I could help her find herself-- who she _really_ is. But now, well, even I don't have that sort of patience. So I'm getting the hell out of here, away from the people I served with and against and then for. This time, I'm making the leap for good.

I think I'll leave all my holos behind when we take off. I used to have one of us from a party early on in the journey-- before New Earth-- that had us both smiling. It stayed in the top drawer of my bureau because there wasn't a better place for it. Eventually, Jenna found it and made me pack it away somewhere in my closet. She said she could never get free of the expression on our faces. What bullshit. As if Kathryn Janeway could have a hold on me anymore. She's not even willing to let herself be human.

But me, well, I'm free. I don't have anything left that I have to stand for. And she's still stuck trying to make her ideals into something tangible, or trying to be so damn hard without shattering... with only herself for company.

* * *

End 4/6 


	5. Bound

* * *

Bound (Tuvok)

* * *

T'Pel is gone. And so, my homecoming has not been to the home I left. My children are well, and this pleases me. Starfleet has acquitted those Maquis I served with and has also acquitted the Starfleet officers, who perhaps could have had more difficulty in justifying their actions. It is an acceptable outcome.

I am returning to Vulcan soon. It is time. Though T'Pel will not be there to see me through, I will find refuge among my people, among those who know our customs. I am considering taking a new bondmate; it is the logical thing to do, since my life has a long course yet to run. Seven will accompany me to begin her studies at the Vulcan Science Academy. It will serve her well to learn to discipline her intelligence.

I sense her presence before she speaks to announce herself. "Tuvok." Her voice, from just inside the door to my temporary quarters, is the consistency of gravel.

I do not look up from my kneeling position, where I am packing a bag with clothes for the journey. "Captain. I see you have once again disregarded the encryption codes on my door."

"Ah, but you need someone to see that you don't become lax. And I need the practice."

"Very well. So long as your criminal activity serves an educational purpose."

She chuckles, low and faint. I finish packing and look up to find her silhouetted against the windows, half-turned to stare at the night outside, one hand resting on her lips, the other arm folded across her chest. Her scent is in my nose, and it is dry and warm and red like Vulcan sands. We stay our careful distance apart. Our friendship, through all the years, has become something comfortable for us both. No closer and no less close after seven years together. I quietly realize that it will be unwelcome not to have this relationship to depend upon when I am away.

I seal the bag and sit back. "Captain, would you care for something to drink?"

"No." She shakes her head a bit, as if to clear it. "I can't stay. I promised some Admirals that I would stop back by and help them with a pet project."

"It is already 2200 hours," I point out. "You should rest. The work will remain until morning."

She gives me a look with which I have grown quite familiar. Her eyes are very blue, so different from Vulcan eyes. "You should know better. Anyway, I only wanted to stop by and wish you a safe journey. You'll be back?"

"Yes." We do not speak of time, only certainties.

"Good. Take care of Seven. She's far too intelligent for her own good."

I dip my head to acknowledge the sentiment. I would not presume to tell her what I think of the statement, as I know she truly listens only when she wants to hear. "I will see that she is well provided for...in all areas."

She studies me a moment and then the half-smile appears on her face. "I know you will, Tuvok. You're a good man. A good friend. Some days..." The thought remains unfinished. She turns back to the window and I am reminded of the strange charisma that some humans have: even when she removes herself from a room, one is drawn to her.

"Yes," I say. "Some days." It is an answer, of sorts.

She takes a step toward me, one hand moving rapidly to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "I must go," she says. Only our long friendship lets me know that this is not an excuse of the sort humans often make; we do not need these niceties between us. She raises her hand to salute me. Her words are in the old language. "Live long and prosper, old friend."

"Peace and long life."

"Godspeed." Her human benediction. She lays her hand on my arm and is gone through the noiseless doors. My skin burns from her touch.

* * *

End 5/6 


	6. Pride

* * *

Pride (Tom)

* * *

She saved my life by adding me to that crazy flying gallery of rogues. To this day I don't know exactly why she did it. Maybe she doesn't either. But I think I understand her, at least a little; probably better than anyone else after these seven years. Enough to make us both uncomfortable.

See, except for Tuvok, I'm the only person who knew her as something other than a Captain. She came to our house for dinner a quite a bit, back when she was a cadet and my dad was advising her on a thesis about hugely compact halo whatevers. She cracked like a whip back then, in a way I recognized: the child of an Admiral who was mostly a military man at home and mostly not home at all. I think she was the daughter my dad would have chosen, and my mom loved her, too. I don't remember many more specifics than that. I was usually too busy trying to talk my way into sims and junkers so I could fly. But I remember this: after the Arias mission and the Cardassian camps, she never came to dinner again.

I guess it's hard to balance being the good soldier with being the doted-upon daughter. My father told me everything, late one night, delirious and dazed by his nightmare. How he'd been forced to listen to them rape her for hours and then to watch. How she'd curled up in a box, listening to him scream against the pain. How they both lied to the 'Fleet counselors and persuaded the doctors to make certain things... disappear from the medical records. Prison camp things. Things you can hear anywhere, in any quadrant, if you know who to ask. Hell, had she left me in Auckland much longer, we could have compared scars.

So, yeah, I understand her a bit. We come from the same place. You can spot a 'Fleet brat at 50 paces. It's something in the set of the shoulders. Something about keeping your back straight and your shoulders square no matter what is staring you down. And never, ever, letting them see you sweat. The uniform doesn't mean much to me, certainly not what it means to her; she found that out when she busted me back to ensign and thought it would rattle me. But the pride is different: it's carried somewhere much deeper, bred in the bone. It's the part you can't let them touch, or they'll take everything. She knows that: I could see it in the set of her jaw or in the blaze of her eyes when she faced down whatever scum were doing their time as the current menace to Voyager. Not every Captain has it, but every great one does. Sometimes it gets you killed. It almost always gets you hurt. It also got us home.

Chakotay could never quite get it, never quite understand what made her tick. His causes were about anger: 'Fleet to get off Dorvan, Maquis to avenge his people. Serving on Voyager was the only thing he did that didn't flare and die, consumed in its own heat. He couldn't understand why Ransom made her so furious, or why she'd walk into that shrine with Kes in her arms, or go running off after whatever crew member had managed to get kidnapped. Sure, we were a family and it was about keeping us together and getting us home safely. That part, he got. But he didn't have the pride, the sort that keeps you together when everything around you is falling apart because you have no choice but to persevere. The kind that makes you walk into the flames because you're betting it will keep everyone else from getting burned.

Tuvok would understand if he ever took the time to look beyond his own relationship with her. Seven... sometimes she surprises me; I think she knows more about it than most. And if I could talk about it with B'Ela, I think I could make her understand. But I can't. I have a tacit covenant with Janeway, and her secret's safe with me. After all, she saved my life; and it's the one thing she did that I don't understand.

* * *

Fin 


End file.
